


Necessary Research

by gnomeslice



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:03:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1358473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnomeslice/pseuds/gnomeslice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rosa and Amy get closer in preparation to go undercover as girlfriends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Necessary Research

Rosa corners you in the locker room, arms crossed and expressionless.

“I need your help with a case.”

“With your big drug case?”

Your excitement is painfully obvious but you're shameless. Rosa has been investigating a night club that could be distributing narcotics. She's been on this club for months collecting evidence about suspicious shipments and an unfortunate number of overdoses connected to its patrons. It's a huge thing for her and you've seen her stay late, start early, and put so much work into it. She's really wants to bring you on?

“If you're only interested for the credit then forget it.”

You backpedal at her misunderstanding, “I didn't mean the credit. I meant it's big for you, Rosa. You've been working yourself to death on this one.”

Her eyes narrow as they study you, trying to find your sincerity. It's well deserved scrutiny, you relish recognition to a fault, but this is different. It means something to you is all, Rosa asking for your help on a case that she's so obviously invested in.

You close your locker and turn to her with a genuine, “How can I help?”

“Be my girlfriend.”

The purse in your hands nearly falls to the floor. You blink, tilting your ear towards her, surely you didn't hear her right.

“What?”

Rosa tries to disguise looking around for eavesdroppers by rolling her eyes. Her voice is low, “Management at this club isn't just selling some seriously dangerous candy, they're tasting the metaphorical rainbow.”

“It's a gay club? That's weird.”

You've heard of the club from Rosa's reports and have even recognized the name on ads at subway stations, how did you miss that it was a gay club? 

This time Rosa's eye roll is legitimate, “Gay people can be drug dealers too, _so weird_.”

“Shut up,” you smack her folded arms with the back of your hand. “That's not what I—”

“Not what you meant, yeah sure. Look,” she gets serious again, “I've been getting close to the people at the top but they don't trust me yet. I think having a girlfriend would be good for my cover and I wouldn't mind the backup.”

You nod, understanding. Rosa needs help fitting in with the club crowd. She wants you to be her fake girlfriend. For a case. For the job. Certified arm candy with a gun. It sounds really nice, actually, and you think it could be a lot of fun. Your hands sort of fidget with the strap of your purse when you mention, “I thought you were working this case with a woman from vice.”

Her eyes narrow again but you're not sure what she's looking for this time.

“Was that a question?”

Even when she's speaking under her breath, in a whisper no one walking by could ever hear, her words can be so sharp. You're almost scared to push your luck. Almost.

“Why didn't you ask her?”

Rosa's fingers tighten around her biceps, digging into the leather of her jacket.

“I mean, she's already familiar with the case,” you continue slowly.

Her eyebrows knit until a fine line appears between them.

“And surely she has more experience in undercover work for drug stings.”

She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and stares at you hard. She knows what you're doing, needling until she says what you want to hear. You want her to justify her choice. Something inside you needs to know why she picked you.

“Not to mention, vice has a—”

Rosa cuts you off, “I don't trust _her_.”

It's intended to be a slight against the vice detective but all you can hear is what a compliment it is by comparison. Rosa doesn't trust that woman, she trusts you. She wants you with her when she's going behind enemy lines. She wants you by her side.

“Besides,” Rosa's eyes fall to your sensible boots and slowly climb back up, “you're prettier. Even for undercover work, I have standards.”

She thinks you're pretty. Ever the fool for compliments, a blush spreads over your face instantly. It’s mildly humiliating, you duck your head to try to hide it and the pleased smile that’s cropped up.

“I'm taking that dopey look on your face as a yes,” Rosa turns on her heel and starts towards the exit, snatching up her motorcycle helmet from a bench as she goes. “We'll go over the case tomorrow.”

Your awkward side slips out and you yell after her, “It's a date!”

“No it isn't,” she throws back.

You’re still smiling after she slams the door shut behind her and you don't stop until much later in the night.

–-

The preparation is very elaborate and that's exactly how you like it. Rosa is a great detective. She happens to be one of the more detail oriented members of the squad. Her notes are extensive and even if her handwriting is a little scratchy.

“This one, Robin Clark,” Rosa holds up the picture. “Asshole.”

“Really? She looks so sweet,” you take the picture from your case partner and commit the name to memory.

On the back of each photo are Rosa's personal notes based on her interactions with the suspect. 'Asshole' is printed in clear letters at the top of Robin's photo along with a few other important details. Apparently, Robin is one of the club's distributors and makes rounds through the dance floor looking for potential buyers.

“About as sweet as a knife in the back,” Rosa grumbles. “She's the one keeping me on the outside. Suspicious.”

You stand up from the table to stretch. The pair of you have commandeered a small conference rooms to review all of Rosa's case files. There are a lot of files but it's nice to see what she's been up to for so long. You understand the late night now. You're happy to help her with this case load.

“Tell me about her,” you prompt, grabbing your mug and heading over to the coffee pot in the corner of the room.

“She's one of those alpha types. Always has to have the last word, always has a joke to crack, always talks about how much more she can drink than everybody else. I want to punch her constantly.”

You can picture the look on her face while you pour your coffee. It makes you smile. Somewhere along the way you've started to find her bristling attitude endearing. She keeps talking, telling you more about the suspects' relationships with each other. It's almost hard for to keep track of who is dating who's dating and who's selling drugs, or what mixture of both. On your way back to the table you grab a cookie from a tray and hand it to Rosa.

Then you have an idea.

“Lift up your feet.”

“There are like six chairs you can pick from,” she stares at you. You kick her makeshift footrest but her feet don't move from the chair they're resting on. “What's wrong with the one you were just sitting in?”

“Nothing, but if you kick me, Diaz, I swear to god.”

Carefully, you reach down with the hand not carrying your coffee and lift Rosa's feet just enough so you're able to slip into the chair under them. Her legs settle on your lap, crossed at the ankle and warm to the touch. You reach for another case file, blow on your coffee to cool it, and ignore the holes she's burning into the side of your face with her glare.

“What are you doing?”

“The research necessary to pull off a compelling cover.”

Rosa's voice is dangerously low, “I'm talking about getting into my foot space.”

“So am I,” you tell her seriously, strongly. Sometimes the only way to get through to Rosa is to match her intensity level. “You want these people to believe we're a couple or do you want throw away months of work because you can't loosen up?”

She scowls at you for a minute. It's a very long minute. Your face warms under her stare but you don't look away. Eye contact is important to Rosa in a way that's reminiscent of a documentary you once watched about wolves. Something about showing fear, proving trust, and establishing a pack order.

Rosa drops her eyes to her cookie and grumbles, “Fine, whatever.”

She relaxes after a while, you feel the tension slip out of her calves and see her shoulders loosen. You feel like you've made progress. The casework continues, studying profiles, the club's delivery logs and supply venues. Time passes and you're thinking about the possibilities of this club being part of a larger organization of drug distribution when you realize how soft Rosa’s pants are. Or maybe smooth is the right word? If you're honest, you really like having Rosa's legs in your lap. It's a comforting presence, a reassuring weight. Your hand rests lazily on her knee, thumb tracing small circles in against worn leather pants.

“Why do you wear so much leather?”

Rosa looks up from her file, then back down to your hand, “Motorcycle safety.”

“Huh,” you accept the answer with a small nod. It makes sense, she is an avid motorcyclist. You suppose the leather goes with the bike thing. “It feels nice.”

“What?”

That’s not what you meant to say, or at least not out loud. Her pants feel nice? Really? You finally get to a point where you’re semi-comfortable around each other and you want to talk about how her pants feel nice? You try to cover your weirdness by taking your hand off her knee to reach for the stack of perp photos, clearing your throat to ask, “Does it feel nice? Riding a motorcycle, I mean?”

“Would I do it if it didn’t?”

No, you don’t think Rosa does anything that she doesn’t enjoy.

"It's okay, right?" you gesture between the two of you. "If we practice being girlfriends like this? Small stuff, to get comfortable? So we look the part?"

Rosa lets out a long breath, "Yeah, it's alright. But not a word to the boys."

"Oh, of course," you bury your face in a file to keep her from seeing you smile. "Total secrecy."

"I know you're smiling."

"How can I not? Your case notes are simply riveting."

You completely deserve the heel that digs into your thigh, but you decide that being a couple is all about the banter.

–-

"Santiago, we got a lead," Rosa calls over from her desk even before she hangs up the phone. "Let's go."

"Awesome," you close the report you had been proof reading for Peralta and snatch the coat off the back of your chair. "Where too?"

"Hospital, a few kids nearly overdosed last night."

"They were at our club?"

"Yeah," Rosa walks with you towards the exit.

She grabs the bullpen gate and pulls it open for you to walk through first. You're on the stairs by the time you realize what happened. Did she just open the door for you? Rosa isn't acting like it's anything crazy, she keeps talking about getting statements and toxicology reports without a second thought. You listen with one ear, watching her out of the corner of your eye as the doors to the patrol garage draw near.

Then she does it again, taking a long step to get to the door first. She pulls it open, her other hand falling to the small of your back, gently ushering you through the door without missing a beat in her case update.

"This will be the fourth clubber to almost overdose in the last two months," Rosa frowns, glancing at you. Then she stops entirely. "What?"

She caught you smiling, so you try to dodge suspicion, "What, what? This case is really interesting. I'm so glad they didn't actually overdose because then we wouldn't have much of a lead, right? Not to mention that would be a horrible tragedy for their families."

"You're lying. That's not your interesting case development face, that's your fruit loop the teacher gave me a goldstar face," she studies you pointedly. "Spit it out."

"I was, um," you twist awkwardly, eying the door behind you like it's at fault here. "I just appreciate you holding the door for me, is all. I know it's for the case, practicing being a couple like we agreed to, but I don't think I've ever seen you hold the door for anyone before."

It made you feel special, is what you want to say.

"That's worth smiling over?"

"Yes?" you blush a little.

Rosa shakes her head and starts off to her unmarked police cruiser, "All the people you've ever dated must've been crap."

You can't really argue with that one so you joke, "Aren't you going to open my car door too?"

"Keep this up and I'll run you over," Rosa shoots back over the car roof.

"Yes, dear."

"Don't call me dear."

"What can I call you?"

"Detective Diaz," Rosa slides into the car and starts the engine.

You're quick to follow, mumbling, "Yeah, that's really going to work for our cover."

Rosa pinches the bridge of her nose, "Are you asking me what sort of cutesy nickname you can call me as your fake girlfriend?"

“It'll help our cover, Rosa,” you explain. “Just in case I forget your fake name I can call you baby or honey or something like that and we won't get made. I'm only trying to respect your preference to pet names, so if you'd like to choose, now is the time.”

Rosa's lips tighten into a thin line and she starts driving like this conversation isn't happening. You give her about two blocks before initiating conversation again.

“How about I list a few of Google's top pet names for girlfriends and you can pick one?”

“How about I set myself on fire?”

“Okay, here we go,” with a bit of a giddy grin you start listing the search results. “We have the classic, baby, and its variations, baby doll, baby boo, baby cakes, baby face, baby—”

“I am a grown woman,” Rosa cuts in. “No babies.”

You bite your lip because that sounds like she's agreed to pick a name, “Does that mean babe is out of the question too?”

“Yes.”

After considering it for a second you decided, “I don't think I would ever call you baby anyway, not when you could break my arm fifteen different ways.”

“Good,” Rosa sounds pleased for the first time, or at least a little less like she wants to kill you.

Thumbing through the list on your phone brings up few viable options, “What about... Buttercup?”

“Buttercup?” Rosa repeats, her lip curling in disapproval.

“Buttercup is actually the badass of the Powerpuff Girls and I would be flattered to be likened to her.”

Rosa grunts dismissively.

“Fine, how about darling? It's a little old school, a little nineteen fifties, black and white movies and—”

“No.”

“Alright, I'm just going to list off everything that comes up, say stop when you hear something you like. Pumpkin, sweetie, cutie pie, snookums, precious—”

_“My precious,”_ Rosa echoes in a mangled and raspy voice that makes you smile.

“Nice Gollum impression but we're not done here.”

By the time you reach the hospital you've pretty much listed every pet name on the internet with no luck. Still, you follow Rosa across the parking lot and continue to offer possibilities, “What about honey, pookie, doll face, sugar, hot stuff, _hot pants?”_

You look up thinking you've found a winner.

She glances back at you, her hair falling over her shoulder with ridiculously effortless perfection. One of her eyebrows rises above the other, “Why do you think I would agree to hot pants?”

“Um, because you're... you have nice pants?” you falter, making this awkward gesture to her pants and then her whole body, “and you're... nice in your pants? You and your pants go nicely together?”

“The nickname is hot pants, not nice pants,” Rosa's second eyebrow rises as she teases you. “Are you saying I look hot in these pants?”

Heat washes over your face. Yes, Rosa looks very attractive in those pants, All of her pants, actually. You've noticed it on more than one occasion but you've never been called out on it before. So you deflect, rattling off the first name on the screen, “What about muffin?”

She smiles at you, a rarity in itself, but this smile is so genuinely amused it's vexing, “Santiago, you want to pretend to be lesbians and call me muffin?”

You blush a little harder and decide that the pet name thing might not have been your best idea.

–-

Back at the station, Rosa takes you over the toxicology report from the victim's blood screening. She's explaining that the narcotics are identical to the previous victims and if the pattern she's worked out over the last couple months proves to be accurate, a fresh shipment of drugs has just hit the club's market.

She's explaining all of this and then, without even the slightest pause between topics, she says, “Go out with me tonight, I'll pick you up at seven.”

You shift, leaning further against the edge of her desk. The question catches you off guard, “Go out with you?”

“That's what I said,” Rosa shuffles her paperwork in a way that might be nerves, if you knew Rosa to get nervous.

“How do you mean? To talk about the case?”

“We can talk about the case here,” her eyes skate around the office once and then glance at you like her meaning should be obvious.

And then it is.

“Oh.” A smile creeps onto your face, because Rosa doesn't want to talk about casework, not exactly, “You mean for practice.”

"Research on our cover story," Rosa alters your label. 

You lean over and whisper very quietly, “Practice being girlfriends.”

“I don't care what you want to call it,” Rosa stands from her desk, files in hand. “Seven o'clock.”

She turns to leave but you snatch the sleeve of her jacket before she can get away, “Just a second, dear.”

“Santiago,” Rosa twists back, eyes a narrow warning.

You keep your voice barely audible, so no one else could possibly hear, “Is that how you ask your girlfriend out on a date?”

“Fake,” she corrects under her breath. “ _Fake_ girlfriend.”

The office chatter continues around you, people walk by without a second look, and not a soul knows how thrilling it is to see Detective Diaz squirm.

“I don't care what you want to call it,” you parrot her words, pushing off the desk to take half a step towards her. Your heart races in your chest at the way her eyes follow you so sharply. “Even for undercover work, I have standards. Ask me again, like you mean it.”

You take your hand from her sleeve, letting your fingers slide down the leather until they ghost against the back of her hand. Daring to give her one last smile, you turn away and walk off. Her glare follows you until you're out of sight.

–-

It doesn't happen until much later in the day, when you're in the copy room doing a favor for Gina. You catch a dark shape out of the corner of you eye and look up. Rosa is standing in the middle of the doorway, absolutely smoldering.

“Did something come up with the case?” you ask sweetly, not even bothering to hide the humored grin on your face.

She wants to murder you and it's adorable.

Rosa shakes her head and kicks the door closed behind her. Your smile dims slightly, because this could be the part where she tells you that you pushed too far and kicks you off the case... or this could be the part where she actually kills you. Either are possible by the slow way she approaches, eyes never straying from yours, feet silent even in her boots. You're once again reminded of a wolf. Somehow you manage to continue your work, grabbing packets and stapling them together. You’re thankful for this small miracle, you don't want her to think she intimidates you. Even though she really does sometimes.

Especially when she hasn't blinked once since coming into the room, and suddenly she's so close to you. She takes the stapler out of your hand in such an easy manner, like she could do absolutely anything and you would just go along with it. Maybe you would. When she slides behind you, so close the zipper of her jacket scratches across the back of your blazer, the defiant posture you had been clinging too evaporates along with your pride.

Her hands fall softly onto the copier in front of you, one arm on each side of you, leaving you trapped.

You turn your head to ask, “Are you going to murder me?”

“Give me your notepad and I won't,” her breath washes against your hair, tickling the shell of your ear.

It's not very graceful, dropping your arm at an angle that won't touch her as your reach for the notepad tucked into the back of your belt. Despite your efforts, your knuckles tap against her belt buckle and you think the corner of the notepad scrapes along the top of her thigh. The heat rising on your face and neck is unbearable. She must think you are completely inept at this... this fake dating foreplay thing.

Rosa takes the notepad, flips it open to an empty page, and steals the pen tucked into the cover. While you try to keep from squirming, or asking what lovely smelling shampoo she uses, Rosa writes a small message on the notepad.

_Rosa is rad,_  
Amy is too.   
Go out with me,   
and I won't punch you.

A warm smile spreads across your face. Yes, this is wonderful. If Rosa was ever going to write poetry, this would be it. This is brilliant. She's an amazingly ridiculous person. You can't help it, you laugh until your shoulders shake, leaning back into her chest carelessly.

Her hand squeezes your side, “Is that a yes or a no?”

You manage to turn around in her arms and you sort of forget what you were about to say when you see the hinting smile in her eyes. She's pleased with your reaction, you even think she’s proud, but you can't make this easy. Poking her shoulder you remind her, “A poem threatening physical violence? Really, Rosa?”

“Yeah, that's like the best kind,” Rosa shrugs like it’s obvious. “You thought it was cute.”

With this tiny sigh, you hook your fingers into the pockets of her jacket and... you take three seconds to soak up this moment. Easy, playful, chemistry. You like this a lot, probably more than you should.

“What should I wear?”

Rosa's eyes brighten, you wonder if she was worried that you might say no, “A Knicks jersey.”

-–

Rosa brings you to a sports bar.

It's a little bigger than the hole in the wall place the squad frequents after shift. The decorations are a mix of Knicks, Mets, Yankees, and Jets paraphernalia. Curiously, there are a lot of jerseys and team logos on the walls that you don't recognize.

“Who are the New York Sharks?”

“Women's pro football,” Rosa answers, leading you to a booth with decent view of a widescreen TV.

“And the Sky Blue FC?”

She glances at the poster you're pointing to, “Women's soccer. And if you can't tell me what sport New York Liberty plays we should just go home now because this date is over.”

“Aw,” you pinch the back of her arm, “you called this a date.”

The tone of your voice is teasing and light, but your heartbeat picks up a little, a silly rush of nerves floating through you. A date. A date with Rosa Diaz.

She rolls her eyes and reiterates, “Fake date, as research for the case, and I wasn't joking, what sport do they play?”

“They're a basketball team,” you're happy to answer, thankful for that time you arrested a bookie tracking bets on a professional women's basketball game.

“Hang out here,” Rosa gives you an approving nod and you feel like you won the date. “I'll get us something to drink. What are you having?”

“I think...” you trail off when you find a flier on the table advertising a match between the Detroit Derby Girls and the Gotham Girls Roller Derby All-Stars.

You've been to sports bars with your brothers, you follow New York's professional teams as well as the next fan, but this is peculiar to you. A sports bar so interested in women's athletics? Now that you look around, you notice that roughly ninety-three percent of the patrons are women. Maybe twenty-six percent are currently engaged in behavior—holding hands, talking closely into each other’s ears, that couple kissing by a pool table—that would suggest this sports bar caters to women with certain sexual preferences.

“You brought me to a lesbian sports bar?” you send Rosa an incredulous look.

The barest of smirks plays on her lips as she puts her hand on the back of your chair and leans closer, “Immersion therapy.”

Tricky lady. You had no idea she was going to spring this on you. With a too sweet smile you say, “I want to punch you.”

Her grin is maddening, “Now you’re speaking my language. Drink?”

“Whatever you're having.”

She walks off to the bar with that hellishly confident strut of hers. You're not the only one that watches her move, a woman a few tables over raises her glass to you with an impressed smile. You sink into the booth seat and pretend you don’t share the sentiment.

Rosa returns with two beers and laughs at how quickly you start to drink, “Hey, if you're uncomfortable we can leave after the drink.”

You know she means it genuinely, but shake your head, “It's not that. It just caught me off guard. I'm fine with this. Totally fine. I am an accepting individual, adaptable in all situations.”

Her dark eyes study you until she's sure you're not lying and then she takes up her own drink.

“Do you know a lot about women's sports? Is it something you're into?”

Rosa is slow to answer, and even when she does it's vague, “I follow a few teams.”

She's never been one to talk about herself. You barely know anything about her, really. The Knicks are playing tonight, and Rosa's brought you to a sports bar to watch the game, not to have a heart to heart conversation.

“Alright, dear,” you touch her arm and settle into the booth, “I’m not going to talk you to death. You think people need a security clearance to know your shoe size. But, if you’d like to talk, please know I would be very open to conversation should you choose to engage.”

“Noted,” her response is short and careless, and might have come across sarcastically to anyone else, but you see what your offer means to her. She actually starts to relax, kicking her feet onto the opposite seat and leaning back in the booth bench. You’re sure she was dreading some crazy interview session.

A waitress brings you a second round of drinks and the burgers Rosa had ordered at the bar. You’re pleasantly surprised at the choice, it feels right, greasy food and beer. The game starts and you decide to enjoy it with your friend/fake girlfriend. It’s fun in its own way, trying to figure out how to act more like a girlfriend than a friend or even a coworker. You pull one foot onto the bench, letting your bent knee rest against Rosa’s thigh. If she minds, or even notices, it doesn’t show.

By halftime Rosa is the one making the effort.

You lean forward on your elbows, drumming your fists against the table when the Knicks make a lovely three point shot, “Yeah!”

Rosa raises her glass to the TV, her other hand falling onto your back, ruffling the material of your jersey in celebration. Surprisingly, it stays there against the small of your back. You keep your eyes on the game and your attention everywhere else. She takes a drink and swears that if the team blows this game now, she’ll burn the stadium to the ground.

“I’ll help,” you say firmly, trying so hard to keep from fidgeting when her fingertips start to run back and forth over your spine.

“Burn it to the ground and dance in the ashes,” Rosa growls under her breath. Then, while the entire bar is celebrating another great shot, she mumbles, “I didn't say it when I picked you up but you look nice tonight.”

This time you look, with your arms still raised in excitement. Your whoop dies off into a shy smile. A flutter in your stomach mixes with your enthusiasm for the game and the amount of alcohol in your system.

It makes you bold.

One of your arms falls carefully over her shoulders and you lean into her side. Rosa matches your audacity, the hand on your back wrapping around your waist. You’re a little teasing when you ask, “Did you need two drinks in before you could say that?”

Her frown is exasperated with a just a hint of embarrassment. You’re not sure if that’s a flush of color on her cheeks or a trick of the light.

“You look nice too, Rosa.”

“I always look like this.”

Well, she’s sort of right. She didn’t exactly stray from her usual style, the leather jacket seems to be a must for her. Though, you rarely see her in jeans and this particular dark wash compliments her whole image perfectly.

“Then I guess you always look nice.”

It’s a simple truth. Rosa is always very pretty, she’s always so put together and super distracting. More times than you’d like to admit, you’ve lost your focus in the morning briefings after your attention wanders to a certain detective and her impeccable hair care, grumbling quips, and exceptionally guarded expression.

“Is it my hot pants?” Rosa takes her turn at teasing.

“Oh, don’t be mean,” you shush her, rolling your eyes.

“You have a thing for my pants,” her fingers play with the hem of the jersey at your waist. “That’s cool, no shame.”

No shame.

Would there be shame in admitting how much you’d like to kiss her right now?

The Knicks score, or at least the bar cheers like they did. The commotion is enough to pull your eyes away from Rosa’s. Suddenly it’s so much easier to breathe.

“I guess we won’t be burning the stadium down.”

“I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or not,” Rosa admits. “It’s cool that we’re winning, but that coulda been one hell of a first date.”

You pick up your drink, studying the glass and weighing your odds. Finally you lick your lips and ask, “Is arson a prerequisite for a second date? Or can that requirement be waived?”

“For you?” Rosa chuckles. “Oh yeah, arson is out of the question.”

“Really?” you’re scared to take her seriously, is she being serious? Does she want to go on a second date with you? For the case or in real life?

“Let’s be real here, I’d have to set the bar real low,” Rosa smirks into her beer, “something lame, like tricycle theft.”

You punch her arm and she just laughs, warm and full, and you’re in love with the sound.

“That’s not even funny,” you mumble, “I could totally steal a tricycle.”

Rosa’s eyes are still smiling when they shift up to yours. Her lips curl at the corners and you read a challenge in every inch of her expression.

“Then it shouldn’t be that hard to get a second date, now should it?”


End file.
